


Fait Accompli

by IgnobleBard



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Drama, M/M, Mystery, POV First Person, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-24
Updated: 2003-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/pseuds/IgnobleBard
Summary: Legolas is enslaved by a mysterious and powerful being.
Kudos: 11





	Fait Accompli

Rarely have I faced darkness so complete my elven vision could not pierce it. There had been Moria, of course, but then I had been in the company of the Fellowship, among friends. I am now alone, and the all-encompassing, oppressive blackness surrounds me more tightly than the walls themselves, constraining my spirit, and blunting my normally keen senses. 

I have been imprisoned for many days, or yet it seems so, in this accursed darkness, the reason for my confinement unknown to me. Stripped of both weapons and clothing, my bare feet trace the limits of my cell again and again, my hands groping the hewn stone walls plaintively in an effort to draw whatever small feeling of life the bare stone can provide. The smell of fear, that of others or my own I cannot tell, seems to seep from every crevice of this lightless space, assaulting my nostrils with an acridness I can taste in the back of my throat. 

There is only one door in this cell, a heavy iron portal, smoother than the rough stone, and colder. I have touched it only once, tracing its large, worn rivets and thick metal bands with trembling fingers. But as I tentatively tested the strength of the unyielding iron, a horrible sensation engulfed my mind - one of suffocating, drowning, my lungs bursting for air long denied. The sensation came upon me so swiftly and unexpectedly that I could not immediately understand that the feeling was not physical, that I was not sinking into the depths of a vast, violent ocean. I sprang away from the door instantly but the unrelenting intensity of the feeling did not pass for many long minutes, and I slid to my knees on the chill, dirty floor, gasping, both enervated and terrified. When the breath came at last to my lungs, I began to weep in fear and despair until my thoughts returned to a semblance of normalcy. I do not dare touch the door since that time, though I know it to be my only means of egress from this room and my only possible escape route. 

My thoughts, when not invaded by the ever encroaching gloom, seek memories of happier times as I struggle to maintain my sanity, for Elves' spirits will often fade quickly when deprived of the light of Anar and the living pulse of the natural world. These pieces of memory allowed a sort of respite at first, but now, the more I try to think on anything outside the darkness, the more elusive and distorted the memories become. When I am able to conjure a pleasant memory, the moment is so fleeting; the darkness so quick to return and so fearsome that I know I am losing the inner battle essential for my survival. 

When first I found myself in this prison, I tried to maintain my mental fortitude by singing or reciting bits of poems and stories from my people and from my many travels in the world of Men. The old stories were difficult to recall and the poems and songs mere fragments. Eventually, the echo of my own voice in the dark became too unnerving for my increasingly fragile spirit and I fell silent. Now I cannot speak, even should I desire to do so, for my throat is parched with thirst. My empty belly, once growling angrily in need, now lies in subdued silence having given up its futile pleas for sustenance. 

My ceaseless movement around the tiny cell is now the only thing that reminds me I still live, that I am not trapped in some walled oblivion between this world and the next. I cling to the wall in front of me, pressing my body to it as closely as possible, trying to will a dwarven feeling of comfort with lifeless stone into the desperate embrace. The pitted stone is cool against my cheek, arms, chest, belly, and thighs but the coolness brings no comfort, soothes not my troubled mind. 

A sound fills my ears and I harken to it, startled for a moment at the strangely amplified volume in the echoing cell, before I realize it is the sound of my own gentle sobbing. And then I perceive another sound in the limitless darkness, distant at first but steadily growing. The sound slowly resolves into words, faintly and seductively spoken in smooth, flawless Sindarin. They are not spoken by an Elf but by another creature, one able to reproduce the beauty and poetry of my native tongue. Captivated, I struggle to understand the words; they are the first words I've heard spoken, except for my own, since I found myself here. When finally I make out what the creature is saying, it makes my blood freeze in my veins. 

"Are you broken, my plaything?" it asks, and the walls echo back, "Are you broken? Are you broken?" 

Anger stirs within my breast at the foul words. I shove myself away from the wall and ball my fists in defiance. I spin around helplessly, straining my tear-filled eyes to see the thing, though even if the creature was standing a pace in front of me I would not know it. 

"No!" I shout, but the word is spoken only in my mind, as the sound that escapes my throat is an almost inaudible rasp. 

Silence. 

I stand trembling, working my mouth to try to speak. My first reaction to the voice, one of anger, I now recognize as the wrong response, for the voice has gone and with it any hope I have of learning about my captor, of finding a way out of the darkness. 

"Come back," I beg hoarsely. "Do not leave me." My voice sounds humbled and though I hate the thought of giving in, neither can I stand the thought of remaining alone in the cell, alone with the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have paced, wept, pleaded with the voice to come back but it has not. How long ago I heard the voice I do not know, but estimate it must be many days past. I lie on the floor of my prison in a half-stupor, no longer knowing or caring what happens to me, too weak from hunger and thirst to move, my now tearless weeping having ceased several hours before. I am fading and my death will come soon, but I do not fear my journey to the Halls of Mandos for I believe the god of Fate will grant me only a short wait within his fortress before my spirit is given new life. No, my death brings not fear but sadness in leaving behind my friends and the beautiful forests and mountains of Middle Earth after only short thousands of years within her favor. A shuddering, breathless sigh escapes me and at the same moment, the voice returns.

"Are you broken, my plaything?" it asks. 

I close my useless eyes and run a dry tongue over my cracked lips. I was ready to die, ready to be free of this place, but the sound of the voice makes the small spark left within me flicker with want. I want to live. I do not want this place of crushing darkness to be my last memory. My mind makes the decision that my body and tortured spirit made long ago. 

"Yes," I sigh, even within my mind my voice is hushed. "Only remove me from this darkness." 

Behind my closed eyes there is a flash and I see the redness upon my eyelids that bespeaks bright light shining upon them. Cautiously I open my eyes, letting them adjust a little with each increment of opening until I can see my surroundings at last. I am in a huge bedchamber, lying on sea-blue silken sheets upon an oversized bed. A sheet covers me to the waist. I am alone. 

This room is as light as the cell was dark, and my eyes, long accustomed to darkness, are stung by it. The light is artificial, not sunlight as my body craves, but for now it is enough. My head rests upon a soft, cool pillow and, with considerable effort, I raise my head slightly and see at my feet a massive footboard, carved of a wood with which I am unfamiliar. Forcing my head higher, I am able to see the rest of the room. The floors and walls are of moss-green marble, with decorative carpets in muted blues and greens. Finely crafted chairs and tables of dark, richly polished wood are arranged comfortably throughout the room. A fireplace is along the adjacent wall to the left; currently it is unlit but the room is pleasantly warm without it. There are two large, narrow windows on my right, but the view from them is of a leaden, twilight sky, neither day nor night. Two small tables flank the head of the bed and I see a pitcher of water on one of them, but am too weak to reach for it. 

My arms are lying positioned on either side of my head and I try to move them down to make myself more comfortable. That is when I notice my weakness is not the only thing keeping me from the water but that my wrists, encased in golden shackles, are attached to the wall above the head of the bed by golden chains. The chains are long enough to allow me to sit but I know I cannot and I do not try. 

'Plaything'. The word suddenly echoes in my head and I now realize its meaning. I close my eyes again. I live, but for how long, and at what price? It is my last thought before I fall into a horrified swoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When next I open my eyes, I am startled to see the figure of a man standing before me, though I know it is no man I look upon. For one thing, he is too tall to be a man, standing at least seven and a half feet. For another, his black eyes have not whites but rather a reddish glow. His night-black hair cascades down onto his muscular, bare chest and his features are finely chiseled, with a sculpted nose and square jaw line. He is beardless and his skin is deeply tanned and unmarked, save for a small white scar upon his left breast. His unlaced black leggings are made from some thick-skinned animal but are immaculately tailored, accentuating the muscles of his legs and thighs as well as the bulge of his groin. He stands with his legs widely apart and arms folded imperiously across his chest, regarding me with a possessive sneer.

I do not know what he is, or how he has managed to bring me to this place without my knowledge, but I know well what he wants from me. I find myself able to meet his gaze for only a few seconds before I drop my eyes. The only thing keeping me from shuddering in fear is my lack of strength. 

He moves to the bed and pours water from the pitcher into a goblet. Placing one knee upon the bed, he reaches for me and I lie helplessly as he lifts my head and places the goblet to my lips, giving me drink. The water is sweet and cool, sliding unhindered down my parched throat as I swallow reflexively, refreshing me to a degree as it hits my lank belly. He removes the goblet and puts it back on the table. Still cradling my head in his huge hand, he places his other hand upon my chest, over my heart, and my body cringes instinctively at the touch. I look into his eyes again and see a keen, depraved regard. 

"Are you broken?" he asks in Sindarin. His voice is the one in my head from before, deep and almost taunting. The Elvish words sound to my ears like a curse upon his foul tongue. 

I swallow and close my eyes, "Yes," I reply, and in that moment, it is true. 

"Look at me," he whispers. 

I open my eyes reluctantly and meet his unnatural gaze. The red surrounding his black irises brightens as the hand he has placed on my chest begins to slowly stroke down my body, and now I do shudder and move my hand feebly to stay his. A chuckle rises from his throat and he smiles and touches the gold shackle at my wrist. He lifts my hand and places his own overlarge hand palm to palm with mine, comparing the size. My smaller paler hand against his larger darker one creates a significant contrast, the symbolism emphasizing our expected relationship. I know what he wants of me. I know that even if I were not still weak from my imprisonment I could not hope to match him in physical strength. 

"Do your will with me," I sigh hopelessly, "and I escape you in death, for I will fade if you take me against my will." 

He chuckles again, a knowing sound, and smiles evilly. "We shall see," is all he says. 

He gives me drink again, and then lowers my head back to the pillow. He strokes my hair gently for a moment, arranging it upon the pillow like a child might do with a favorite doll. "Rest now, little Elf," he murmurs affectionately. 

I stare obediently, sightlessly, at the ceiling and sink into a thin, troubled sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Again, I am surrounded by darkness, flailing my arms as I struggle to draw air into my paralyzed lungs, sinking into cold oblivion. I try to cry out for Gimli, for anyone, to help me as I fight to breathe, to see. My ears ring with a jingling sound, like that of small, distant bells.

Awaking with a start, I find myself struggling against the chains at my wrists as they jangle discordantly in my ears, my captor once again at my bedside. This time a tray of food sits upon the table and he sits in a chair next to the bed, watching me in my slumber, I suppose. 

Gasping and shaking, I glance at him to see his reaction but he merely watches me with interest as I breathe deeply and lie still for a moment, gathering my strength. What is he, I wonder, and how can I fight him? I struggle to sit up and he makes no move to help me. It takes a long moment, and the chains at my wrists hinder me a bit, but eventually I am able to rise. I rest my back against the headboard and look at him warily. The sheet covering my lower body has slipped down, nearly to the point of indecency, and his eyes travel downward, pausing upon my barely covered groin before returning to my face. He smiles at me and I feel my face flush under his open scrutiny. 

The nightmare has left me feeling weak and disoriented again, but I seek to hide this from the man by adopting an air of bravado. 

"So you have moved me from one prison to another," I say flatly. "I will last but a little longer than I would have in your dungeon if you keep me chained up like this." 

"I do not intend to keep you chained any longer than necessary, little Elf," he says. "After I have taken you I will release you." 

My heart clenches in panic at these words, my breath nearly stolen away again. "Then I have only to give myself to you willingly to be free?" I gasp bitterly. 

"No, you will never be free, for you belong to me now, but I will remove your chains when I have taken you, willingly or no." 

His words are poison to my soul, yet I force myself to maintain my composure so he will not see. "Then you might as well end my life now, for I will never be yours," I say with a courage my wounded spirit does not support. 

"You cannot fight me, nor can you escape me that way," he says confidently, his eyes starting to glow again. 

His words confuse me, for it is well known that no elven spirit can support the offense of rape. Such cruelty is unknown to our kind, inconceivable in any aspect but conjecture. Why he seems so certain I could survive his attentions I do not know, but I am in no hurry to test his confidence in me. I have never been subservient to another before and my mind naturally rebels at the situation, but his power to plunge me into darkness, to destroy my spirit, makes me fear him, diminishes my will to resist. 

"You dare not resist me," he says suddenly, as though reading my thoughts, "The darkness will take you again if you refuse to cooperate." 

My eyes find his as anger flares suddenly within me. "And you would do well to remember that a lack of resistance does not denote surrender," I retort sharply. 

The words are too boldly spoken for the slave he would make of me, and I fear he will seek to punish me for my insolence. Though I looked into his eyes as I spoke, I am forced to drop my gaze again when he stares back at me impassively, making no reply. The moment stretches; I do not know what he is thinking, what his reaction might be. He still does not speak and fear begins to take shape within my breast. 

"I am sorry," I say at last. 

“You have some spirit left,” he says, but I cannot tell if he thinks this a good or bad thing. 

He rises then, and sits upon the bed beside me. I move over to make room for his bulk and to put a bit of space between us. He does not seem to mind; he knows I cannot go far. His chest is still bare, as are his big feet, and he now wears loose-fitting lounging pants. As I move away, he sits upon the sheet covering me and it slips again, exposing me fully. With my hands shackled, I cannot cover myself and I blush and turn my head in shame. I see his hand reach for me and I tremble as it dips toward that private area that lies open to his gaze and touch. He only pulls the sheet up, covering me once more, and I am relieved, but mistrustful. 

"Who are you?" I ask suddenly. "Why and how do I come to be here?" 

"You know the answer to that," he says cryptically. "I did not bring you here; you came to me." 

"Impossible!" I cry, though truly I do not remember. 

"Right now you cannot remember," he says, as though again reading my anguished thoughts, "but in time you will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My head pounds dully as I try to force the memory to come, the throbbing ache a feeling new to me, one that dismays me further. Though my heart tells me he speaks the truth, I do not know why I would have come to him willingly.

Biting my lip to stifle a moan of pain, I glance at him and see that he is taking a piece of fruit from the tray on the table. He picks up a sharp knife and slices the fruit in half. Popping one half in his mouth, he turns to me and offers me the other half. The chains clink as I reach for the fruit, my stomach suddenly growling encouragement. Just before my fingers touch it, he pulls the piece away and shakes his head. 

"No, not like that," he says. 

My growling stomach lurches in disgust as I realize he means to feed me like a pet. A sense of defiance awakens within me once more, and a shoot him a withering look. 

"Then I am not hungry," I lie. 

Shrugging, he pops the fruit into his mouth and chews it with relish, smiling at my look of starved longing. He casually flips the sheet from my lower body then he grabs my hips and pulls me down so I am lying on my back, my arms over my head. Taking my legs in his strong arms, he kneels before me and pulls my buttocks onto his thighs, spreading my legs wide as he positions them on either side of his waist. 

"No!" I shout, terrified, and when he does not relent, "Please!" 

He holds me in this position until I exhaust myself and am forced to quit fighting. Then he begins to move his hands up my thighs slowly, coming ever closer to my limp sex as I lie shaking and moaning frantically in distress, every muscle in my body tight as a bowstring, my eyes wide, pleading with him to yield. 

"Not now," I beg, "Please, I am not ready." 

He ignores my entreaty and his eyes drill into mine, glowing hotly. He smiles at my stunned expression, showing his dazzling white teeth. 

His thumb brushes at the tender area at the junction of my thigh and groin on my left side and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and turn my head to the side, using the last of my will to staunch my tears. 

"Not yet," I moan to myself, as his fingers wisp upon my flesh, creating small tendrils of heat in their gentle wake. I shudder and a tear escapes, dampening the pillow beneath me. 

His hands leave me then and I continue to tremble, fighting for several moments both my fear and my urge to weep, waiting for the touch to return. When it does not, I slowly open my eyes and turn my face to him. His eyes bore into mine as though looking into a part of my soul that even I cannot see. 

"You were a warrior, but you are no longer," he says implacably. "Your days of war and fighting are over. Do not fight me, little Elf, and never, never, lie to me." 

The word 'warrior' stirs something within me, a ghost of a memory. Why can I not recall where I was before I found myself in his dungeon? I remember war, the War of the Ring. The words bring forth scattered images of battle and pain, but nothing I can fully grasp, nothing I can hold onto. Hobbits - small creatures. There was Frodo, Sam, two others. I saw them not after - what? My temples begin to throb again and I shake my head to clear it and look at him miserably. 

"I do not understand," I tell him. "You have stolen me from my home, locked me in darkness until my life and sanity hung by a thread, starved and tormented me. Why? What do you want of me?" 

"Your submission, your obedience," he says at once, his eyes flashing. "It is sweet, a life force so vibrant, a spirit so strong, melting and bending to my will. It is as honey upon the tongue. These I will have from you, and in return I will help you remember." His eyes take on a sudden aspect of sympathy. "It hurts to remember, does it not?" he says soothingly. "I can make that pain retreat as easily as I can the darkness." 

I realize I have no choice. I am too weak to fight; my thoughts too scattered to focus my will. Trembling from the effort to control my emotions, from my fear, from my hopelessness, I slowly lift my sorrowful eyes to his. 

"Will you help me?" I ask. 

"I will, little Elf," he says reassuringly. He releases me then, and helps me sit up, a small kindness for which I am grateful. He pulls the sheet up to my waist, then repositions himself beside me and takes up another piece of fruit as though nothing unusual has just happened. 

"You will eat now. You must regain your strength," he says, bringing the fruit to my lips. 

I nibble it obediently, swallowing with difficulty past the lump in my throat as I stare listlessly at the foot of the bed. "More," he snaps, and I wince at sudden harshness of his tone. 

Taking bigger bites causes the juices to run down the front of my body, but he ignores this and continues feeding me until he deems I have had enough. The sticky juice trickles down my chin and chest and I squirm uncomfortably in my chains. He leans in close and deftly catches a droplet that has halted its downward journey a few inches above my navel, retracing its path with agonizing, seductive slowness. I flinch at the touch of his warm, wet tongue upon my naked flesh, and then still, barely breathing as he trails up along my neck and chin. 

He skims my quivering lips and I part them uncertainly. His tongue enters and explores me for a time, and though I want to fight back, I force myself to remain pliant. I try to detach myself from the feeling of his hands upon my body, his tongue in my mouth, his glowing eyes large within my vision as he kisses me, but I cannot. He is all around me, in me, upon me, the scent of his skin faint but unmistakably masculine, undeniably aroused. This is only a kiss, I think bleakly, how will I survive the other indignities he has in store for me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sit curled up against the carved wood of the bed, my back against the headboard, my knees drawn up to my chest. With an effort, I stretch my fingers down to run them beseechingly over the intricate design of a mallorn tree cut into the strange wood. I wonder if I ever truly appreciated the beauty of the forests, streams, mountains, plains, and even the expansive Dwarf caves of Middle Earth. How many times did I walk thoughtlessly within a place of perfect tranquility or awe-inspiring beauty with only the thoughts of a journey, a hunt, a mission, or a battle blinding my eyes to the splendor of the very state of my existence? I mourn for this lost time, never to be recalled, that I so carelessly forsook in the days of my freedom.

My eyes seek the windows and the never-changing view of the purple-gray sky beyond. I wish I could be rid of these chains and go to the window, see outside. What would I see, I wonder: trees, birds, flowers, or only cold stone and barren heath? The view might answer a question or two as to my whereabouts, even if I do not recognize the landscape. Any information might aid my escape, if, indeed, escape is truly possible. I idly consider asking the man if I might be unshackled long enough to satisfy my curiosity, but I fear what the price of such a request might be. 

After my captor finished feeding me, and taking his liberties I recall with a shudder, he brought a basin of water and washed away the rest of the juice from my face and chest. The touch of his large, strong hands cleaning me with a soft cloth gave me a stirring of pleasure that I found most disturbing. I was relieved when he told me he had other duties that needed tending and took his leave. 

I feel a bit stronger, but know it is only the beginning of the journey back from my ordeal in the dark. If only I can hold on until my full strength returns, I might find some means of escape. I look about the room, trying to calculate by its dimensions, and that of the man, the size of this dwelling. It is, of course, impossible to gauge such a thing with so little information, but the exercise clears my head a little. 

I have not heard a sound from beyond the room, even though I have strained my ears to do so. Are there others around? Do they know of their lord's imprisonment of me, of his cruelty? Would any come to my aid if they knew? Would I find an ally, or an even more brutal enemy, by seeking aid? 

Questions with no answers make my head ache, and I have nothing but questions now. I lean back and close my eyes, willing myself to relax, and when I do, a memory rises unbidden. Walking in starlight within a grove of beeches, the scent of the forest surrounds me and I am at peace. I allow this feeling to permeate my being as I hum a bit of a tune, an Elvish ode to spring. After a moment, I reach a part of the song I do not remember and I furrow my brow in concentration as I try to summon the next verse. The peace I felt disappears as reality crashes into my consciousness once more. 

I open my eyes and shake off the last of my complacency. I will not simply sit here, waiting for my captor to return and continue his games. Checking the shackles at my wrists, I find they appear to be gold, but the metal is stronger than gold and my efforts to find a way to break them or to work my hands through them to free myself, prove fruitless. Ignoring the discomfort of my chafed wrists I feel my way up the chains, examining each link thoroughly with my fingers, testing and searching for weakness; I find none, nor do I find weakness or flaw in the thick metal plate holding the chains to the wall over the headboard. Turning my body around to get a better look, I wind up kneeling on the bed, the chains twisted slightly as I scrabble with my fingernails in an attempt to loosen the plate. 

A small sound reaches my ears and I give start of surprise and whip my head around. The man is right next to the bed, now wearing formal attire as though he has just come from a ceremony or banquet. He climbs upon the mattress before I have time to react, and kneels behind me, putting his hands upon my waist, holding me in place. I did not even hear the door open, yet he was there and now his hands are on me again. I am kneeling, my wrists twisted in the chains, making me helpless, his weight pinning my feet to the bed as he kneels on the sheet that has slipped down again. 

He does not speak but his hands slide leisurely up to my armpits and then down to my thighs, finally coming back to my waist. I do not move and my breathing shallows in fear as he touches me. I feel his breath steal across the nape of my neck, hot, light, dizzying. My head spins and I close my eyes to center myself. 

"You seek escape?" he asks, but his tone reveals this is no question. 

"Yes," I whisper fearfully. 

"If you seek escape, you also seek punishment, do you not?" He places a soft kiss upon my shoulder and my body ripples with dread from my shoulders down, as a stone thrown into a pond ripples the water. 

"No, my lord, I seek only freedom," I say softly. 

"I told you, there is no freedom for you," he says, but his voice holds no anger. The words float in my ear like the swell of a gentle ocean wave, and I open my eyes to darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am alone in the dark cell, my bare knees upon a hard floor, my unbound hands touching cold stone in front of me. I gasp in horror and push myself back, rising shakily to my feet.

"Not again." I think miserably.

Standing naked in the isolated darkness, I rub vaguely at my sore wrists and then hug my arms to my chest tightly, squeezing my upper arms until my fingers ache. Regret. The feeling overpowers me and I sink slowly to my knees with the weight of it. Why could I not have been content to linger within that one pleasant memory? Why did I resist that which cannot be resisted?

As the hours pass, I slowly begin to realize that that my captor is right. I am no longer the warrior Elf whose bow and blades helped protect my people through many centuries in Mirkwood. Though my mind strains to remember a past my body knows well, the effort brings only another weakening stab of pain, forcing me back to the hateful present I would forget. In this moment, here and now, I am only a slave to darkness and to the whims of a cruel and powerful master.

Master? I must think of him thus. For does he not hold the very essence of my being within his formidable grasp? I fear that no thought, action, or hidden desire of mine escapes him and I moan in despair as his words echo again in my mind, 'You will never be free'.

I languish in the darkness with only the thought of the man's dread words for a long time, though I do not know how long, the wearying circularity of my blighted thoughts making me quail with grief. Eventually, I feel my stomach begin to cramp with need again and I whimper softly. How long will he starve me this time, I wonder? How long will I thirst before he deigns to let me drink? Even a crust of bread would I eat from his hand if he should but allow it.

No sooner does this thought come to my mind than I feel a strange tingling sensation upon my palms. I fumble the object that has suddenly appeared there, dropping it, then groping desperately in the dark until my fingers grasp it. Bread! Snatching it up, I bring it quickly to my lips, hesitating for only a second as a small, fleeting thought of rebelliousness stirs within me. Then I devour the food quickly, lest he sense the thought and take it away before I can finish.

Licking the last crumbs from my fingers, a sudden disgust rises up within me at the animal I am become, threatening to disgorge my meager meal upon the floor. I cry out in anguish, rocking slowly back and forth, as an indescribable numbness fills me, displacing the last of my will. Suddenly I freeze in my movement, struck by a horrifying revelation. The thought shocks my soul as a rush of icy water shocks the body and I shudder violently, my teeth chattering as with cold. The thought is no more and no less than this: I fear death. Never has this thought entered my conscious mind, though I have confronted the possibility a thousand times. But to die honorably in battle, to sacrifice myself for others, is a far different thing from this slow, tortured fading into darkness, or from unwilling impalement upon the lust of the pitiless creature who would claim me.

Though terrifying in its implications, this thought also brings with it a sense of calming resignation. I no longer need struggle against both my captor and myself to prove my fortitude. I need only accept my fate to attain the peace I now know I will not find through my intransigence. I bend lower, pressing my palms and forehead to the cool stone floor in supplication. 

"Forgive me, master," I say aloud.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ground shifts and gives beneath me and I see the blue of silk sheets; feel the softness of the fabric I kneel upon. The hated shackles are upon my wrists again but this time the chains are long enough to allow me to abase myself. I remain in position for several seconds, disoriented by the sudden change. As I start to rise, I feel a firm hand upon the back of my neck, not gripping me tight, just holding me in place.

"Say it again," he orders.

"Forgive me, master," I repeat and my voice quavers, but only a little.

"Stay," he says firmly. 

His hand begins to move down my back and I suppress a shiver, keeping my head down submissively. Through the curtain of my long hair, I see my hands reflecting the blue of the sheets they rest upon. How thin and pale they look to my bleary eyes, like cave creatures that go white from lack of daylight. I feel his hand trail down my back, exploring the contours of the too-prominent ridges of my spine until it comes to rest upon my upturned buttocks. 

"Why should I forgive you?" he asks, his voice dripping with disdain.

I swallow hard, realizing I do not know the answer. "B-because I was wrong to try to escape?" I stammer uncertainly.

"Is that a question?" he says, his voice taking on an edge. "I am asking the questions."

"I was wrong to seek escape, master," I assert quickly.

"Why were you wrong?" he asks, his fingers gently tracing my cleft, distracting me, making it difficult to think clearly.

"I do not know," I admit a little desperately, "because it felt wrong to submit to you, to let you do your will with me."

"And why would it be wrong to submit?" he presses, "I am more powerful than you. I hold the key to your past, present, and future. "Why would you not submit?"

I close my eyes, thinking hard, as his hand massages my firm flesh. What answer will appease him? Only the truth. But what is the truth? I do not know, and I fear if I tell him so, he will send me back to the cell. A small, frightened sound escapes me as the seconds tick by, my thoughts dissolving into a swirl of confusion.

"Please do not punish me, master." I cry at last. Trembling, I close my eyes and curl my body tightly until my forehead touches my knees. "I do not know."

"Your pride makes you resist," he says, as though explaining an obvious fact to a child. "It has led you to darkness and pain."

"Forgive me my pride, master," I beg shakily, not even caring how servile and defeated my voice sounds. 

"So proud, so arrogant." he says sympathetically, "A surfeit of pride is the downfall of many who are free to choose, but you have no need for it now, do you my pet?"

"No, master," I agree, tears starting from my eyes at the admission, "for I am no longer free."

"That's right, my pet, you are not," he says softly. "And now you know that pride can lead to terrible consequences, for through it you have chosen this path." He pats my rump gently as I choke back a sob. "Rise," he says.

I push myself upright on my knees and he also kneels upon the bed, taking me into his arms as the tears I have held in so long burst from me in a tide of abject woe. He now wears a tunic of a gossamer fabric and I twist my fists in the thin cloth, burying my face in the valley of his broad, muscular chest, as my heartbroken sobs consume the tatters of my foolish pride.

"You will be all right now," he murmurs softly, stroking my hair and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. 

Once the tears begin, they are difficult to stop, but finally the last of my vanity is washed from me by their sincere contrition. I release my grip on the man's tunic and embrace him fiercely. He returns the embrace, rubbing my back soothingly, then he carefully pushes me away and lays me down on the bed. The chains draw back to their original position, once again leaving me lying helpless before him. He makes no move to cover me and I squirm and blush furiously under the bold intensity of his gaze.

Removing his sodden tunic, he climbs upon the bed on hands and knees and looms over me, his hands beside me, level with my ribs, his knees straddling my narrow hips, and he looks at me appraisingly with his dark, fiery eyes. I cannot stop my shaking, but I do not fight my bonds or plead with him to yield. I know he will take me now, for he has taken everything else from me and I have only one thing left to give. The thought torments me, yet I find my apprehension surprisingly tinged with a trace of anticipation. 

His lips caress my collarbone and I feel him inhale deeply, tasting, scenting my helpless flesh as I push my head back into the pillows to allow him better access. He moves to the hollow of my throat, lightly, almost ticklishly, grazing the sensitive skin there. Then he moves slowly down my chest to playfully bite my nipple and I arch and gasp at the feeling, my loins stirring, wakening to his attentions even as my heart quickens in dread. 

He licks, nips, kisses me upon my chest and taut belly until I am breathless with desire, and then, as quickly as he began, he stops and gets up, standing beside the bed, eyeing my aching arousal before meeting my puzzled gaze with a wicked smile of triumph.

"Not yet, little Elf," he says. "By my choice, not yours, remember that."

I watch, bemused, as he leaves me, my loins beating a shameful tattoo of reckless yearning long after he has gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time passes, and I find myself acclimating with difficulty to my master's irregular visits. I never know when he will choose to come to me or whether his presence will bring comfort or pain. He remains mysterious, his moods mercurial, and though I have surrendered to him, I still find the loss of control over my life and fate difficult to accept.

My strength slowly returns through the application of regular food and drink but I find no consolation in my body's renewed vigor. For to what end do I linger in this comfortable prison? Only for the persistent, disgraceful fear that liberation from my shackles will bring either death, or bind me forever to the man as his promised plaything.

I am allowed to eat or drink nothing except from my master's hand, but I do not refuse any offering, even when I am not hungry. I often watch his large hand as he holds a bowl of soup or stew just out of my reach, my eyes drawn almost hypnotically to the progress of the spoon as it scrapes the bowl and brings a bite of meat or vegetable to my waiting mouth. Other times he feeds me bits of fruit or morsels of bread and cheese. His fingers linger upon my lips and tongue, gently urging me to suckle them, and I wordlessly, submissively, comply, my heart stung with humiliation.

Though I remain bound to the bed, I no longer lie beneath the sheet, for I have nothing to hide from my master, and Elves are not discomforted by changes of temperature. Still, I cannot help but blush and tremble when he looks upon me with hunger or touches me intimately, though my reticence neither stays nor angers him. He says my blush makes me more beautiful and my trembling only excites him. 

Excites him! Would that it was enough to push him into action, for he has not taken me as I thought, even hoped, he might after I broke down in his arms. When I surrendered to his will that day, I merely wanted an ending of my pain. Yet I now find myself unable to take the final step, to invite my inevitable ravishment through wanton word or act and he has, thus far, not forced himself upon me.

Instead, he has chosen to prolong my torment by making a gloating game of my body's response to his treacherous affections. He torments me with his mouth and touch, fiendishly delighting in my anguished moans of frustrated passion, denying my desperate cries for release. Each reprieve from my impending defilement brings both relief and dismay. Waiting for a thing to happen, without control, without the hope of changing it or taking action to prevent it is as foreign to my nature as the unbearable desire I now feel so unwillingly at his touch.

The hated chains still bind me to my master's pleasure, restricting my movements, keeping me edgy with enforced inaction. I used to love roaming freely, hunting, navigating a variety of terrains though physical skill and mental alertness. Now I would consider myself vagabond if I could only quit this cursed bed, leave this room, and discover what lies beyond. 

I sigh and decide to give myself a reprieve from these disquieting, dangerous musings, for I still do not know for certain if he is able to sense my thoughts. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I glance sadly toward the windows. The curtains in the room are drawn now, but even when they are open the view of the sky beyond them is always the same. Neither sunlight nor starlight shows the progress of a day. But it does not matter, for time is irrelevant here. It passes, I suppose, as it does everywhere, but the swiftness or slowness of it is no longer my concern.

True to his word, my master has helped me remember my past, asking gently probing questions and filling in the gaps with information he should have no knowledge of. When the pain comes, he either holds me and gently rubs my temples until it subsides, or pins me down, clasping my forearms in his strong hands as he looks deeply into my eyes, forcing a submerged recollection to surface from the stormy sea of my mind. Some of my memories are themselves painful, but they are part of me and I want to know everything, despite the suffering it brings. My master understands this, though he always asks me before we start if I am certain I want to remember all. When I say yes, he shakes his head and smiles indulgently, and then we begin.

We started with my earliest memories and worked forward. Not in chronological order, but from pleasant to disturbing, and back again. I grew bold enough once to ask him why he could not simply tell me what I need to know, since he seems to possess the power to do so. He told me that discovering my past, like discovering myself, is something each of us must do on his or her own, that simply telling me would create a distance that might keep some important memories locked away forever. 

My gaze drifts to the fireplace where a fire dances brightly. My master will sometimes kindle a fire for me. Not to stave off cold, but to give me something visually relaxing to watch, something to feed my spirit when I am deprived of his company. Looking into the flames reminds me of winter days in Mirkwood, of reading to my father before the fire as fierce storms raged outside. A combination of mulled wine and ancient lore was ever a restful mixture on an inhospitable day, and my father always loved to hear me read to him.

My father: the memory of him comes vividly and I can see his golden hair, a shade darker than my own, his robust laughter, his love of wine and song. I wonder where he is now and if he thinks on me with fondness. It has been many years since I last saw him and our parting then was strained. I was sent to represent our people at the Council of Elrond because of my failure in keeping captive the pitiful creature called Gollum. How it pained me, the look in my father's eyes, when I told him of the Orc attack that claimed my fellows and of Gollum's escape. I am startled by the clarity of this memory and my amazement causes the images to flee until I am alone once again. I try to bring the image of my father once more to mind, and my head begins to ache. I become melancholy, wishing that my master would return so I would have some company besides these fractured thoughts.

Suddenly the door opens and he enters, soundlessly as always. Sometimes when he comes to me he wears formal attire, or armor of a strange and ancient design. But most of the time he appears as now, wearing loose trousers, his chest bare, and his long black hair loose upon his shoulders, framing his handsome face. My eyes turn to him eagerly as he approaches and I move over upon the bed to make room for him. He smiles and sits down next to me, kissing me lightly in greeting.

Breaking the kiss, he strokes my cheek with the back of one finger and I look questioningly into his eyes. A frighteningly evocative look greets me and I drop my gaze quickly, suddenly uncomfortable. He slips his hand through my hair, letting the tresses flow fluidly through his fingers, then his mouth takes mine fully, muffling my gasp of alarm. I think to protest, my body stiffening, but the thought flies as quickly as it comes and I relax as he lowers me onto my back and slides his body down to lie next to me. For a time, I am conscious of nothing but the softness of his lips and the way his breath envelops me in a haze of velvet warmth. Only our lips make contact and I find myself quivering slightly in expectation of his touch.

When the touch comes, a trailing of light fingertips along my ribs and belly, I am unprepared, as always, for the depth of the response it stirs. Forgetting the chains, I reach for him but am brought up short, the soft tinkle of the golden links, ringing like the laughter of a taunt in my ears. He takes me into his arms then, and deepens the kiss, until I am swept into an eddy of weightless bliss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am lost! What he has done to me, what I have let him do, is unconscionable, unthinkable! I sit with my knees drawn tightly to my chest, staring straight ahead, trembling wretchedly. He has forced me to pleasure him in a way I cannot countenance, cannot comprehend. Yet the realization that wrings my heart more harshly than the act itself is that my own semi-hardness, which lies trapped in hidden shame between my thighs and abdomen, refutes the revulsion I feel for the service he has forced me to render.

If only he had left me afterward, as he often does when bringing me to the edge of release, I would be able to calm my mind and body, refortify my spirit until the next encounter. He has not left me, he has only stepped into another room to fetch some wine, and I shudder at the thought of his return. Even an ocean of wine could not remove the pungent taste of his juices from my mouth, the scent of his rampant manhood from my nostrils, and I feel another bit of my spirit torn from me by my own abhorrent desire. 

He returns with a tray bearing a bottle of wine and two goblets. Setting the tray upon a table, he sits down upon the bed, pours the wine, and turns to me, a goblet in his hand. When I do not move or turn to him, he suddenly grips my hair, pulling my head back and shoving the drink to my lips with such force that the vessel strikes my teeth. The wine comes thick and sweet into my mouth and I am forced to swallow quickly or risk drowning, a sickening reminder of my earlier disgrace. I choke down a measure of the wine and he pulls the drink away and releases his severe grip on my hair, turning the clench into a caress. I close my eyes and bow my head, tightening my hands into fists.

"You kill my spirit by degrees." I moan softly.

He chuckles and I glance at him despondently, not understanding why this should amuse him. Taking a sip of wine from his goblet, he swirls it around in his mouth before swallowing, his other hand gently toying with a strand of my hair. "I savor your pain like I savor this wine." he says. "For only through pressure, darkness, and time does one produce the finest wine..." he takes my chin in his hand and turns my face to his, gently kissing the last moistness of the wine from my lips, "...or the finest slave."

He strokes my cheek with his thumb and I blink at him in confusion. "I do not doubt your words, but neither do I understand them," I say. "What pleasure is there in the pain of others?"

"What pleasure is there in killing Orcs?" he counters, raising an eyebrow significantly.

The battle of Helm's Deep rushes into my mind like water through a burst dam. With a jolt, the images of the battle overwhelm me: the spill of Orcs through the broken culvert, pulling arrows from the dead when my supply ran out, fighting alongside Gimli and Aragorn. I remember how we were overrun - the blood, the fear for Gimli when we were separated during the fight, wondering if he was dead or alive, the relief when we found each other at the ending of the battle.

"You would use my former actions against me," I reply, affronted, "but I never derived pleasure from taking life, however twisted and brutal that life may have been. I acted only to defend my people, my people's allies, and my friends."

"And making a game of counting your kills with a Dwarf?" 

My eyes widen in dismay. "That was... that was different... I... we..." I trail off, unable to explain.

"Is it?" he asks gently. "We all do what we must, little Elf, but you cannot deny that the excitement of battle was akin to pleasure, as is your excitement at my touch."

"How do you know of these things?" I blurt out, forgetting my station, my blush confirming the accuracy of his words. A sudden thought strikes me and my next question is rasped out from a mouth gone suddenly dry. "Are you Sauron? Was it only a dream that Frodo destroyed the ring?"

He laughs at this and my blush deepens from his amusement at my fear. "You think me the Dark Lord?" he says. "No, my pet, he was destroyed. Your memory is correct there."

"Then who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" I cry. "If no plea of mine will move you to mercy, then tell me the truth..." looking into his ghastly red eyes with all the earnestness of my conquered soul, I take a deep breath "... end my torment now."

I gasp as he grips my hair tightly once again, and catches my gaze, his eyes flashing with familiar fire. "Are you truly ready to know all, little Elf? Be certain before you answer. For some paths, once taken, cannot be traveled again, and some things, once revealed, cannot be hidden or forgotten."

His words frighten me, hinting as they do of a truth that would rend my soul, but I hold his gaze unwaveringly. I will face my fate head on, as I ever did before I was this creature's slave. 

"I want to know all." I answer firmly.

"And so you shall." he says, his soulless eyes maliciously aflame.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His powerful hand grips my throat and his fingers curl upon my jaw, holding my head in place, forcing me to meet his eyes. Fear lurches through my suddenly quaking body as his black, red-wreathed eyes bore into mine. Within the depths of his glare, I feel myself plunged into a vortex of horrifying sensation, an overwhelming, unrelenting force of nature too dark and infinite to grasp.

I struggle wildly, moaning in desperation, fighting him to the limit of my chains with all my restored strength, but to no avail. He stands, lifting me bodily with no more effort than I would lift a tankard of ale, and his grip tightens on my neck, choking me into a state of semi-consciousness. Then he drops me carelessly upon the bed, watching with detached interest as I gape like a fish beached by the tide, my legs thrashing the sheets into a froth of blue silk. Terrified, I push myself backward, cowering against the headboard, gazing at him with wide, staring eyes.

He disrobes unhurriedly, freeing his growing manhood from the confines of his loose clothing as I watch, transfixed by the object of my doom. Then he reaches for me and I shrink away with a small cry, shaking my head violently in the negative. 

His eyes grow hard and angry. "I have indulged you long enough, little Elf. Now you must face the penalty for your arrogance." 

He seizes me, unfurling my coiled limbs, and climbs up to cover my naked body with his, grinding against my abdomen with a domineering thrust of his muscular hips as he forces my legs apart with one knee. Gripping the hair on top of my head tight, he kisses me roughly, his tongue lapping at my firmly clenched teeth. When I refuse him access, he jerks my hair sharply making me gasp in pain. Now I am open to him, above and below, and his tongue aggressively claims my mouth as his growing heat pulses against my heaving belly. 

Continuing his assault upon my lips, he releases my hair and slides his hands demandingly down my body, but now there is no gentleness, no teasing, to his touch. His fingers dig painfully into my flesh, groping with bruising force each tender area until the cascade of anguish becomes unbearable and I moan loudly, pleadingly, into his open mouth, fighting the chains as I arch and twist myself in an effort to dislodge his bulk. His lips leave mine, and his strong white teeth bite a stinging path down my neck and chest almost, but not quite, hard enough to break my flushed skin. He pauses to savage my erect nipples and I clench my fists until my fingers ache as I focus on enduring each new startling wave of pain. 

When he reaches my groin, a frightened, animalistic whine rises at the back of my throat as his teeth lightly, but excruciatingly, scrape my flaccid member. His hands effectively pin my hips in place and he lifts his head until I feel his heavy breath wisp gently over my sex. This sudden change in sensations, from painful to pleasurable, sends my brain into a spiral of delicious confusion and my body responds willingly as his lips, very softly, caress the side of my thickening shaft.

He presses these small, gentle kisses along the upward arc of my arousal, easing the already retracting foreskin back with the agile tip of his tongue. This wet, soft warmth upon my most sensitive area makes me shudder in helpless delight, and I now I moan my assent, trying unsuccessfully to raise my restrained hips, to bring myself closer to the oh-so-slight friction. He kisses his way just as softly down the other side, then he takes the wholeness of me into his mouth, the gentle suction sending torrents of liquid fire racing through my body. I want to thrust, but am held back by his strong hands as his mouth releases my member and takes in both of my tightening orbs, rolling and suckling them as a child with a sweetmeat.

Overwhelmed with sensation and desire, I do not immediately realize that he has urged my legs up, exposing my hidden opening, until his tongue presses slickly at the entrance to my body. He prepares me lusciously, probing with seductive intent, until I open to him, my body pulsing to a rhythm as ancient as Elves, as powerful in its ability to transform as the Valar. As his tongue plumbs my depths with mounting fervor, his hands firmly massage my inner thighs and quivering member, bringing me with skillful speed to the unbounded edge of orgasm. 

Then, maddeningly, he once again stops short of allowing me release, and for a moment I fear he will leave me, as so often before, lying dazed and unfulfilled, shuddering in frantic frustration. Instead, he lifts my legs upon his shoulders and positions himself at the threshold of my ultimate surrender. The knowledge of what is going to happen stuns me, and though I want to struggle, cry out, or otherwise rebel against my fate, I cannot. He pauses, looking deeply into my eyes, and the air thickens around me as I freeze within his embrace. Everything disappears until only the dark irises of his eyes remain in my vision, like an endless tunnel that I must traverse in order to reclaim my inner light. I fall deeper into the gaze, unable to move, breathe, or speak, the fear of what lies before me an anchor tugging my heart down into the void. 

Then, with a violent thrust, he breaches me, and a scream of soul-shattering pain is rent from my throat. He does not cease his advance until he has forced all of his substantial length into my burning fastness, and I meet his impassioned gaze with a look of tortured, defeated despair. I am one with him, filled with him, my body yielding with intolerable slowness to the force of him when, suddenly, a peculiar sense of familiarity inexplicably washes over me.

When he can progress no further, he stills, and the moment spins out endlessly, his black eyes glittering like flint-sparked embers with the intensity of his control. I become aware of every nuance, every sensation, as though this small time encompassed the span of my immortality. The scent of our combined heat fills my nostrils, the staggered labors of our breathing fills my ears, and the coldness of the chains I now grip tightly in my hands seems to spread to my heart. Then the pain begins to dull and only the fullness, the unimaginable sense of being owned from the inside out, remains. Moaning piteously, I look into his eyes and a response akin to compassion greets me.

"Why?" I beg in a subdued whisper, my eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Because you refuse to remember, refuse to accept what you have done. This is the only way to make you understand." 

"Understand what?" I gasp as his hand moves between my legs to aggressively fondle me back to rigidity.

He does not answer, only continues to stroke me and I quickly rouse to his touch. My breathing becomes erratic as he begins to move within me, setting up a slow, steady rhythm that matches the rhythm of his hand upon my sex. The torment of my arousal, of my body's answering response to each new manipulation, is more insupportable to my battered mind than the torturous darkness of his dungeon. He caresses the pointed tip of my ear with his tongue, sending me into a spasm of ecstasy, then he bites my upper lip, sinking his teeth in to remind me of his control over my pain and pleasure. With short, teasing thrusts, he looks into my eyes, his long, dark hair spilling softly upon my face and neck, and I fall into his dark gaze and I am lost in him.

The feelings within me build unchecked until he strikes a place deep within me that seems intimately connected to every nerve in my quivering body. For a fragile moment, I balance tremulously upon the periphery of release, and then I am plunged into an otherworld of deathless rapture, a cataclysm of pure, raw sensation. Through this stultifying pleasure, I feel the speed and power of my master's thrusts increase, rocking me fiercely like the crashing waves of a stormy ocean. 

Suddenly, I see Gimli, standing in the bow of the boat I built, shouting to be heard over the roar of the Sundering Sea and the howl of the raging wind.

"It will not hold!" Gimli shouts fearfully, and I open my mouth to reassure him when a wave of inconceivable fury seizes the small craft, splitting it asunder, sending us both into the icy, roiling ocean.

Gimli's eyes meet mine for the barest second, and a look of unspeakable horror and panic stares from them, and then a massive wall of water separates us, forcing me beneath the waves. Thrashing, flailing in the unforgiving might of the furious sea, I fight to pull myself upward to the seething surface. In the black foam I cannot see, in the fury of the waves I cannot find my way, and finally, my store of air depleted, my limbs numb from cold and exhaustion, I feel my spirit leave my lifeless body. Traveling with a swiftness my elven limbs could not match in life, I find myself in the darkness of a dungeon, all memory of my past life wiped away like footprints on a beach are erased by the incoming tide.

Now, at last, I understand my folly, and why Mandos, the god of Fate, has tried to force me so many times to face what I have done, only to have my defiance, my refusal to accept my responsibility for Gimli's death, lock away from myself the memories of my past. In trying to bring a Dwarf, a mortal, to the Undying Lands without the blessing of the Valar, I arrogantly placed my friendship and my desires above that of the gods, and my penalty is to retain my immortality at the loss of my soul, to be the plaything of a merciless god until the ending of the world.

This time there will be no wait in the dungeon, for now that I know the truth there is no escape for me. Some things, once known, can never again be hidden or forgotten. The chains fall away from my wrists and I reach for him, my hands clinging tightly, imploringly, to his shoulders as the crashing of angry waves resounds in my ears, and I feel the last thrusts of my master as his passion is spent within my writhing body. As darkness consumes me for the final time, the words of the Lady Galadriel repeat themselves in my mind, a warning I did not before comprehend:

"Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree in joy thou hast lived. Beware of the sea!"


End file.
